


Truly

by AhnakaSkyle



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 14:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19086913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AhnakaSkyle/pseuds/AhnakaSkyle
Summary: She wasn’t supposed to exist. Or, she wasn’t supposed to be around in one thousand years. Or probably at all. She’s truly lost. And Garak truly loves her





	Truly

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my first Star Trek fic! Hopefully it won’t suck?

The day started out unlike every other day should for Garak. That is to say, without an irregular hitch. For living on a space station, that was already rare in itself. As for being the only Cardassian on a station full of humans and Bajorans, even more so. Today, he started to notice no one was giving him cold and uncomfortable glares, no looks filled with Trenobulan ice or gazes that sent telepathic waves of hatred to him. He was able to swing his sewing kit without any security officers eyeing him suspiciously.

Years he has waited for the moment of complete and idiotic trust! . . . He still had a long way to go, unfortunately. He was a Cardassian. The, ah, _lowest in honor_ , according to the Klingons who occasionally stopped at _Deep Space 9._

The interior of the station was filled with the familiar steel and titanium grays of the Cardassian color scheme. After the Bajorans began to live here, splashes of red and orange bloomed like flowers across the halls of the living ring. Garak always wanted to get lost here.

He walked briskly by a temple of the Prophets. The Bajorans took faith seriously, and he wasn’t the type of man to believe in something like that. He sometimes didn’t even believe in himself. Praises of the Celestial brings could be heard from outside the walls. He braced himself for the all-too obviously judgemental and scornful faces of the priests.

He was too busy ignoring it that he didn’t see that no one cared until he looked back.

As he passed other spaces and outlets, he noticed that not only did no one pay attention to him, but they were all preoccupied with some sort of gossip. Women with bent heads whispered excitedly to each other. Men raised a hand to tell their best friends something that happened, or a secret that wasn’t doing a very good job at staying hidden.

“Isn’t _that_ interesting?” he murmured to himself, highly intrigued. Scarcely was there a secret on Terrok Nor that he didn’t know.

When Elim passed _Quark’s_ , he saw Ferengi laughing sneakily. “Now we have two more than we asked for! Do you suppose we could sell the new one?” he heard a nasally one ask. He had small lobes for a Ferengi, but his clothes gave him away for being an important man.

“Are you joking, Hurk?” his taller companion guffawed. He wore many rings on both hands, and sounded as if his mouth were stuffed with gauze swabs. “We couldn’t get any latinum off that sale if we tried! No one wants one with skin like them.”

More laughter from the imbeciles sitting at the balcony. Two? Two what? Garak rolled his eyes, continuing on the promenade.  
When he made it to his shop, the whispering only got worse.

♦•♦

Julian Bashir wiped his face tiredly, again. Why did he stay up that late, again? He had work to do; he wasn’t going to be much use to the patient in his infirmary dead tired. This girl . . . whoever she was—or well, was going to be—he couldn’t even think about clearly. Captain Sisko had asked for him not to tell anyone about this unheard of hybrid. He would love to follow that order, but he was slipping up. Quark saw, so that was probably the worst thing that could happen. How did someone not ask questions about . . . about this beautiful piece of genetics? Her gentle spoon on her head dipped into smooth skin, the eyebrows on her head a little more human than the rest of her people.

Perhaps if he had the Captain’s approval to wake her? He shook his head.

He combed his fingers through his hair, unsure of how safe it would be to study this patient, or even how the physiologies successfully merged within the womb. He paced, trying to think. It wasn’t like worrying about two mammalian species or two species with similar body structures (reptilian or mammalian). Half Cardassian and Bajorans were miracles in their own right, simply because most of the scales and organs and adaptations. But this woman? Not only was she fantastic, but she was at least millennia old in existence terms.  
Without modern medicine (or even travel, for that matter), she shouldn’t have been even possible. _Yet here she was._

“Miraculous,” he mumbled for maybe the twelfth time within the last twenty minutes. “Absolutely fantastic.

The heart monitor beat steadily. Julian sighed softly. He supposed he could sleep for a little. He did only have until after lunch to actually work, and Jadzia had promised to check up on the sciences behind this wondrous girl, anyway. He hit his comm badge.

“Dax?”

“Dax, here.”

Julian yawned again, stifling it the best he could. “I was wondering . . . if you were free to take a shift?” he said between another yawn. He really needed to sleep. She gave the affirmative, telling him to go to his quarters. He did just that.

Softly, he lays his head down, embracing an hour or so of rest.

♦•♦

“. . . and so _I_ said that—this was all while my daughter said she wanted to marry a Vulcan—I said, ‘You’re sixteen, you aren’t marrying anyone!’” Garak’s client ranted, a little distracting as he tried to sew. He pricked his finger. _Why in the world did she ask for needle and thread_ today _?_ he cursed himself, hating how soft he was getting.

“Madam, that sounds like the perfect response!” he praises, standing up so he could switch out his tools. He didn’t want to stain the fabric. He arched a brow in thought as he saw a Ferengi run toward his shop in eager spirits. His client shut up immediately when she saw the bartender rush in.

“Garak! Garak, you’ll never guess what they found!” The short man with teeth as sharp as a Klingon targ and clothes as gaudy as . . . as, well, any other Ferengi, grabbed Garak by the shoulders. He tried not to make a face. His client, Mrs. Robison, was tight lipped, at long last, so he supposed he could hear Quark out for a minute. He thanked whatever God or gods or prophets were out there for that, finally.

“What did who find?” he asked impatiently, brushing off the businessman and turned, resuming his tailoring. The Ferengi didn’t even bother to take the hint, he just kept running that warp engine of a mouth.

“Oh, you know, Starfleet!” Quark exclaimed, practically dancing with all the wiggling he was doing.

“Starfleet?” The Cardassian pretended to be interested. Of course, he never was. Starfleet meant little to him, so long as they were minding their own business. Unfortunately, that was rare in itself. But so far, they were helping them against the Dominion.

“They found a human-Cardassian hybrid!” he says, rolling his eyes impatiently. Garak, ever so humoring, turned to face Quark. The businessman was expecting a bit too much from Garak this morning, as the Cardassian was confused why such a feat was well . . . a feat.

“What about them?” he inquired boredly. He took his client’s measurements again.

Quark was practically bouncing to tell him. “She’s a thousand years old. I stopped by the infirmary and Dr. Bashir told me; it’s crazy.” He puffed his cheeks, slapping Elim on his shoulder, which Garak found a little too much for the time being.

But that . . . Out of every ridiculous rumor . . .

“My dear friend, haven’t you figured out what’s a lie, by now? Humans have only been starfaring for two hundred years.” He smiled knowingly, turning back to his work.

“I _saw_ her, Garak. You should come with me. _Now_.”

**Author's Note:**

> How was it?


End file.
